Doh!

Couldn't have said it better myself.

I forgot: one must be on the Edit HTML tab to upload images.
Did I really forget?
Was it that way before?
Oh the joys of menopause.

Calling All Bloggers

"Come in Bloggers, come in."

"Can you read me?"

"Need urgent assistance with Image Upload."

"Party in question switched to the new blogger some time ago and hasn't been able to complete Image Upload since conversion."

"Come in bloggers, do you read me?"

"All available units please respond immediately."

"Possible mayhem to ensue; several images roaming blogosphere unruly and detached from any sort of blog!"

"Come in Bloggers, do you read me?"

"Over."

Sayonara, Ichiro

Ichiro Ponders Free Agency and a New Team


Who can blame him?

The hottie in center field cites more than money as the reason he's considering free agency.

What a concept. Ichi just wants to have fun doing what he considers his "hobby." Odd as it may seem, his definition of fun includes winning games and fan enthusiasm.

Remember 2001? Seattle was a baseball town that year. That's what #51 is looking for in a team.

Note to Bavasi: I'll get the fans, you get the wins. Uh... you should know, your end of the deal would probably require you to sign someone who isn't a has-been and who has some decent, RECENT stats to back up that handsome picture on the back of his baseball card.

Note to Suzuki-san: If baseball is your "hobby," what exactly, is your vocation?

In Which Daring Resolve Leads to My Consumption of a Thousand Year Egg.

The truth is, I wanted to snap the old man's head right off.

I'm telling you I could have done the deed right there on the spot with my own bare hands. You see, lately I've been experiencing these surges of rage. I underestimate. I think I mean to say, 'maelstroms of violence aching to get out occasionally course through my body.' Anyhow, when in the midst of these so-far-internal, outbursts, I believe it is entirely possible for me to decapitate someone.

In the end, I decided the best way to avoid a prison sentence, was to relegate my primal inclinations for physical destruction to the gym and show this curmudgeon, who I happen to know has a heart of gold, what a kind soul I am known to be by the rest of the world. In other words, rather than the quick, violent and potentially messy demise I'd fantasized about earlier, I altered my course and wisely resolved to kill him with kindness.

I knew my first move would be to accept a spoonful of the syrupy raspberry jam he tried to shovel into my tea the day before. Little did I know that my refusal would offend him so much that he wouldn't so much as look at me for the rest of the day, let alone cut the fabric I'd ordered the day before. But really, would you have allowed somebody to put a whopping spoonful of raspberry jam into your naturally sweet mug of licorice spice tea?

So, first thing the next morning, I marched right downstairs to his fabric cutting table, tea mug in hand, and asked, "would it be too much trouble to try your raspberry jam now?" Big smile from the old guy. With that simple gesture, I was easily on my way to his good graces. He proceeded to give me specific instructions on just how to add a spoonful of the unset, runny jam into my cup of hot tea. Who knew the specs would be so complicated?

It was reaching into the refrigerator for the "jam," that I stumbled upon the beautiful speckled eggs. There they sat, each one wrapped loosely, yet carefully, in a tiny plastic bag. Always fascinated by interesting food from different cultures I just couldn't let such a treasure go unnoticed. I was pretty sure they were eggs from arcona hens, but thought I'd just verify and maybe at the same time exhibit my wicked culinary IQ. I'm such a smarty when it comes to food, right? Wrong.

I wasn't even close. Well yes, the eggs did come from a hen, that much I got right. Tod, who is a Laotian raised in China and fluent in at least three languages explained that they were Thousand Year Eggs he'd brought in to share with me (he likes to feed my adventurous spirit regarding food), if I was interested. Was I ever!

That day at lunch, the old man (did I mention he is from somewhere in the former Soviet Union? We, his other coworkers and I, can never get out of him where exactly he immigrated from just twelve years ago, one of the 'stans' we think, most likely "pain-in-the- ass-i-stan," we figure) sat reading his Russian newspaper, all the while sneaking approving glances as Tod and I ate the black (think: obsidian colored jello) eggs that had been curing in ash for something like a hundred days. He wasn't in the least bit interested in trying the intensely eggish concoction, but I could tell I was showing him a thing or too about the Bon.

Next day, I scored a d-double-d-licious piroshki like thing that the old man's wife learned to make back in the old country. Not only that, my entire order of fabric was cut without one challenge, or question, or "you crazy, lady."